Confessions of a Jewish Snob

by Rabbi Reuven Lauffer

A few years ago I accompanied my mother to a fancy dinner in honor of a worthy
charity. I had just landed from a day of travelling, and a comfortable bed
was definitely more enticing than a long dinner with plenty of speeches. Lacking
my normal sparkle, I was hoping my neighbor to my left (my mother was on my
right) would not insist on regaling me with fascinating stories about his
summer vacation!

My plan was very simple - to snooze surreptitiously during strategic
moments in the proceedings.

My plan was very simple - to snooze surreptitiously during strategic moments
in the proceedings. Imagine my relief when I saw that my neighbor for the
evening was an elderly, frail looking gentleman who did not look like a great
conversationalist.

The first course was served, and then a speech. As the main courses began
to arrive, my mother called over our waiter and asked for vegetarian meals.
Duly dispatched, the waiter reappeared a little while later with the specially
ordered food and we began eating. As I was cutting my attractively designed
tomato, my neighbor peered at my plate and asked whether I was really a vegetarian.
Well, I am not and I told him so. He then asked why I had given up a generous
portion of thinly sliced roast beef in favor of a beef-less plate of assorted
vegetables.

So I explained:

While true that G-d commanded us to eat only kosher food, within the dietary
laws there are different levels of kosher. Many people are careful to eat
meat only after it has passed many stringent tests in order to receive special
kosher status. The meat served at the dinner was one hundred per cent kosher,
but it had not been through all the extra tests. Hence the vegetarian meal.

When my neighbor heard this he became quite incensed! He kept repeating that
he could not understand. Kosher is Kosher is Kosher! How dare I not eat the
meat! Being in somewhat of a daze I was prepared to put up with all this in
silence, but suddenly the diatribe became personal when he accused me of being "a
Jewish snob!"

"Israeli wine? I don't drink Israeli wine! I only ever drink
the very best French wine!"

Before I could respond to this scurrilous charge, my neighbor (he never told
me his name) was distracted by the wine waiter. Two types of red wine and
one white was enough of a choice to completely absorb his attention. All of
a sudden he exclaimed in a very loud voice: "Israeli wine? I don't drink
Israeli wine! I only ever drink the very best French wine!"

I could not believe my ears! My neighbor won't drink kosher Israeli wine
because it does not reach his standards! And he calls me a snob! Where was
the justice?

Slumped in my mother's car on the way home, I started to analyze what had
happened. Strangely enough, I began to think that perhaps my neighbor's description
wasn't so far off. While not a snob, I am very concerned about what I eat,
and that concern may seem exaggerated to others. Unfortunately, whenever we
look at people who are being more stringent than we are, we invariably view
them as fanatical. "Why are they doing it? After all, the way I do things
is just fine!"

That's what makes Chanukah such a uniquely wonderful time. Because there
is just one time of the year that we are not just stringent in our mitzvah
observance, we are super-stringent. On Chanukah!

Over two thousand years ago a few Jews had the courage to fight for the right
to retain their spiritual purity. They fought to remain uncorrupted by the
pervasive and negative influence of the Greek occupation of the Promised Land.
Today, as in previous generations, Jews all over the world light their Chanukah
candles to commemorate the seemingly impossible victory of a small, frail
band of kohanim (priests), called the Macabees, against the power of
the mightiest war machine at the time, the ancient Greek army. As anyone who
has lit Chanukah lights knows, we light one light on the first night, two
on the second, three on the third, until on the eighth night we light eight.

What many people may not be aware of is that this universally accepted method
of lighting the Chanukah lights is the most stringent one discussed by the
Rabbis in the Talmud. There are two other simpler options, and yet we choose
to ignore them and light our Chanukah lights as we do. The reason lies in
the aftermath of the physical victory over the Greeks. The victorious Jews
celebrated their new-found independence, not with wild partying, but by rededicating
the vessels in the Holy Temple. The very first thing they did was to relight
the golden Menorah with a small, sealed pitcher of the purest olive oil that
had been miraculously found in one of the storerooms in the Temple.

What a message! Beginnings are vitally important.

The symbolism is impossible to miss: In order to bring G-d's light of Purity
and Truth back into the world, the Macabees began the rededication process
by kindling the Menorah. According to Jewish Law they could have used the
opened jars that were strewn all over the place, but instead of making do
with second best they chose to search high and low to find an uncontaminated
jar full of oil to begin anew. What a message! Beginnings are vitally important.
Chanukah is teaching us that something that is begun with the correct intent
and with an eye to all the details can last forever!

Chanukah - what an extraordinary time of the year! A time when I don't look
at my neighbor and wonder why he is doing (or keeping) more than I am, because
we are all performing the mitzvah in the same way! Not just that, but
we are all keeping it in the very best way possible! No one can be accused
of being a snob!

So let's light our menorahs with real pride, because as we do so we are flooding
our homes with the same light that the Macabees did all those years ago. The
purest, most luminous light that will chase away our uncertainties. Light
that will reveal to ourselves and to our neighbors that maybe being a Jewish
snob is not such a terrible thing after all.

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